Out in the Cold
by TimeWellWasted
Summary: Sherlock stays out in the freezing rain a little too long, and catches a cold. It's up to John to make the stroppy detective better before he gets worse.


It was mid-January. The weather had been harshly cold all month, but today it had warmed up enough to instead pour freezing rain all over London. Sherlock had been out all day, leaving John peacefully alone at the flat. Every few minutes or so, John would glance at his phone to check for messages from Sherlock. However, every time he checked, the inbox was empty. John figured Sherlock was following a hunch and didn't want to be disturbed. John felt slightly disappointed Sherlock hadn't texted him, as being alone in the flat was stiflingly dull. On the other hand, John didn't get much time to himself these days, so he continued his day in blissful silence. Suddenly, the door slammed open. There in the doorway stood Sherlock, all six feet and some-odd inches of him drenched to the bone in rain; his lips a pale blue. John had to do a double take at his flatmate. "Christ, Sherlock! You look like death warmed over!" he gasped. Sherlock shivered into the warmth of the flat, quickly taking a seat on his favourite chair.

"I feel like death warmed over." Sherlock replied groggily. His voice was low, his nose audibly stuffed. John sighed with exasperation and rushed to his flatmate's side, slipping his drenched coat from his ice-cold shoulders. Sherlock groaned as the freezing garment was removed.

"Have you been out in the rain _this whole time_?!" John gasped, noticing even Sherlock's skin was a pale blue.

"I had no other choice. I was outside Jonathan Winter's flat doing surveillance. I needed to know how often he left his kitchen light on. It was critical to his alibi which-"Sherlock's story was cut off with a particularly nasty sneeze. "-was beginning to get some holes." John stood back and shook his head.

"You had to stay there-"John paused to look at the clock, "for 7 hours?! I should think 3 or 4 should have been sufficient." Sherlock looked up at him like it was the most idiotic question he had ever asked.

"Obviously. It was a 9 hour span between the time he said he was at home and the time Miss Stevens was murdered. However his neighbor said she had seen the light on during the time he was said to be elsewhere. I needed to see if his neighbour could even see his kitchen from her front room to see if it could have been possible that she saw the light on. Do you understand?" Sherlock explained. John sighed weakly and walked into the kitchen.

"Yes, fine Sherlock. Stay there and I'll get you some tea." Sherlock didn't even seem to hear him and was quickly back into his thinking pose. John put water in the kettle and let it begin to boil. He glanced back to Sherlock, noticing he could see even Sherlock's favourite purple shirt was soaked through. Sherlock's frozen nipples poked obscenely through the thin fabric. John strode back over to his flatmate, hiding the slight flush on his cheeks. "Sherlock, those clothes are soaked. You need to put something dry on, or you'll catch a cold; or even worse, pneumonia!"

"Mmm." Sherlock mumbled in reply, not once opening his eyes or otherwise acknowledging John's medical advice.

John rolled his eyes with exasperation. "Right then, what do you own that's warm?" John quickly walked down the hall and into Sherlock's room. He threw open his closet doors, and sighed again at the sight of only expensive dress shirts, and one or two silk vests. Sherlock had previously set fire to his dressing gown to test how polyester fibres burn, so he couldn't wear that either. "Damnit." He breathed. John hurried back down the hall and past the den, where Sherlock hadn't moved a muscle. He hopped up the stairs and into his own bedroom, pulling out several of his warmest (and largest) jumpers. Finding one that might fit Sherlock, he came down the stairs and back into the den. Sherlock finally opened his eyes and glanced at the jumper in John's hand.

"Oh god. Please tell me you have no intention of making me _wear_ that atrocious thing." He spat, his usual snide look on his face.

"Gee thanks. This happens to be one of my favourites." John tried to sound offended, but was obviously amused by Sherlock's comment.

"That explains why it's so atrocious then."

"Sherlock, behave. I'm trying to help you out here." John now began to chuckle as he sat beside his friend on the settee. John felt the cushion dampen around Sherlock, his wet pants seeping into the couch.

"You can help by getting the tea. It's been boiling for three minutes." Sherlock smiled slyly, taking some sort of satisfaction from seeing John run around for him. John was up again, this time rushing into the kitchen and pouring the water into the teapot to steep for a minute. John brought out the hot tea, black with two sugars, as Sherlock always took it. He placed it on the end table beside him, and grabbed the jumper again.

"All right, take your shirt off." John said, gesturing with his hand. Sherlock's lips tilted upward, his sly look returning.

"Shouldn't you be buying me dinner first, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock smirked. John sighed, with another smile on his face.

"Funny, I didn't know hypothermia could turn you into a comedian, Sherlock. Take the shirt off, doctor's orders." Sherlock kept his amused grin as he undid the buttons on his thoroughly drenched shirt. He removed it, and tossed it into a sopping heap on the floor. John handed him the jumper, which he begrudgingly accepted. It was deep blue and had a snowflake pattern on it. Hideous. He slipped it over his thin frame, and soon the thick wool was covering his chilled skin. It was obviously too small for him, as the sleeves ended a bit after his elbow, but it was considerably warmer than his shirt. It felt strangely comfortable, and the fact that it was John's added to that. "Drink your tea. I'll get you a hot water bottle." Sherlock lifted the saucer and put the cup to his blue lips. It was perfect, as John's tea often was. John poured the remainder of the hot water into the bottle, and sealed it up. He walked back over to Sherlock, and slipped the hot pouch underneath Sherlock's jumper. Sherlock flinched for a half-second at the contact, but allowed John to continue. The heat from the bottle spread pleasantly throughout his body. Sherlock found himself "defrosting" as it were. John had taken a seat in the leather chair across from him, carefully observing how Sherlock was feeling. Sherlock finished his tea and set the saucer back down on the end table. He pressed his fingertips together under his chin, and stared contemplatively at John. John began to fidget slightly under his intense gaze.

"What?" he stuttered, his voice uncharacteristically nervous. Sherlock didn't look away.

"You're worried." Sherlock stated.

"Obviously! My best friend almost turned himself into a popsicle just so he could figure out if some guy had his kitchen light on!" John explained.

"No," Sherlock smirked, "There's more to it than that."

"Also, I'm worried that you actually did catch a cold! Having to deal with a healthy Sherlock is hard enough, but a sick Sherlock would be borderline unbearable!" John huffed back. He wasn't going to let Sherlock get to him, not this time. Sherlock seemed to accept the answer- for now at least.

"Whatever you say, John." He said, pausing for a moment as another deep sneeze wracked his body. Ugh, dull. John sighed, and stood up.

"Alright, looks like you've already caught a cold. Sit tight, I'm getting you some medicine." John began to make his way to the bathroom. Sherlock frowned.

"I don't _need_ medicine. I'm fine." He curled up into himself and pouted.

John just ignored Sherlock's strop and brought back the extra strength cold syrup. He figured Sherlock would appreciate the faster working medicine, so John would get off his back. If he was lucky, Sherlock might even fall asleep. When he got back into the den he wasn't surprised to see Sherlock suiting up again, seemingly determined to go out. "Oh no you don't," John pulled Sherlock's still wet coat off of him. "You're not going anywhere until you get better." Sherlock huffed with annoyance and folded his arms.

"Don't be ridiculous John. I'm perfectly fine, and Winters is still out there! I have to ask him some questions!" He tried to push past John, but the shorter man was steadfast in the doorway, looking completely immovable. Sherlock sighed with annoyance. "John, move! You can't make me stay here." He sneered.

"You're grounded."

"…. I beg your pardon?"

"I said you're grounded."

Sherlock just smirked, now evidently amused. "You can't ground me! I'm not some stroppy teenager!"

John raised an eyebrow and smirked right back. "With that attitude, you might as well be. Sit, you're staying in tonight." John's tone had an air of finality. Even Sherlock knew he couldn't get a word in. John was serious about this.

"Fine." He muttered.

"Good, now just let Lestrade handle Winters, yeah?" Sherlock let out an irritated groan. "Oh come off it, he's capable enough to capture one man." Sherlock looked as if he doubted that, but John didn't comment. John measured the syrup in the spoon, and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock just glared at him. "Take it, or I'll give it to you myself." John challenged. Sherlock and John had a bit of a staring contest before Sherlock gave in and took the medicine. He pulled a face as the syrup passed his lips. John chuckled. "Sorry it doesn't taste the best, but it'll set you proper in no time." John flicked on the TV, and he grinned as Doctor Who was on.

"John, don't subject me to your boring television shows." He griped, with little actual irritation behind it. He was actually rather glad John had taken the time to take care of him. He was feeling better already, truth be told.

"Well, you're just going to trust my judgement on this. I'm a doctor." John grinned. He actually liked taking care of Sherlock. It gave him something to do, someone to take care of. It gave his life purpose. Sherlock remained quiet, patiently watching Doctor Who as John whipped up some soup for him. He was beyond the point of complaining now, and just took whatever John gave to him. He ate the soup and even allowed John to take his temperature. When John finished tidying the kitchen, he sat down beside Sherlock on the couch, tossing a blanket over him. "Comfortable?" John smiled.

"Mm." Sherlock's voice was low and drowsy, the medicine kicking in. John watched with a grin as Sherlock's eyelids fluttered closed, only to open and close again. This continued for another few minutes, until John felt a weight on his shoulder. Sherlock had fallen asleep, and rested his head on John. The army doctor smiled, turning off the telly and allowing his friend to rest. John stood gently, and placed the cushion beneath Sherlock's dark, wild curls. It was rather refreshing to see Sherlock sleep; the man's brain had him going a thousand miles a minute while he was awake, and it was nice to see him slow to a stop. John turned off the lamp and smiled at his friend, bending down to place a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Goodnight, Sherlock."


End file.
